


Survivors

by a_windsor



Series: Exile [10]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/F, Natural Disasters, Non-graphic injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6751678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_windsor/pseuds/a_windsor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looks like Nyssa isn't the only one who is a little... impulsive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Notes: I tried to do some research, but there are about a million transliterations of Grandfather names based on Arabic dialect, so I did my best. Also, there’s a lot of speculation about where Nanda Parbat is, with a strong contingent leaning towards Tibet, but at one point Dig mentioned the Hindu Kush, which is more on the Afghanistan/Pakistan border (so west of Tibet), which makes the non-League people who live closest to Nanda Parbat most likely Pashtun.

Damian’s shoulders are squared, chin high, eyes forward. His tunic (red and gold, of course, over black) is pressed neatly, the lines falling perfectly as he folds his hands at the small of his back like he’s been taught. The torch light catches in the black-red of his hair, trimmed neatly but not too short.

It’s hard for Sara to believe he’s the same eight-year-old boy, who schooled her in Mortal Kombat three nights ago on an island called Paradise.

Then again, in her ceremonial League finery, so many eyes upon her, Sara is probably not the Habibti he remembers either, ratty Rockets sweatshirt and hair tied loosely on top of her head.

It’s the nature of the dual lives they lead, and Damian plays his Nanda Parbat role eerily well. Here, he is old enough to call her Taer al-Asfer, or the reverent Iradat al Ghul. He is the Prince, the Heir’s heir, the Grandson of the Demon.

But he catches her eye, in a brief moment, and his dark blue eyes twinkle with mischief, the bright light that marks him as her D. Nyssa, Heir to the Demon, she of twice or more experience as either of them, stands between and slightly in front of them. Imperceptibly to all but her victims, she elbows each of them in turn. Sara can almost hear Damian’s squawk of protest before he stifles it. 

Damian and Sara return their attention forward, where Ra’s al Ghul speeches and new recruits cower.  
  
***  
  
In the quiet candle-lit comfort of Nyssa and Sara’s rooms, Damian becomes himself again. He pulls the dress tunic up over his head and tousles his unruly hair. Against his bare, concave chest, a golden canary dangles from its chain. One sloppy grin and his transformation is complete.

He has his own quarters next door now, but he only sleeps in them, and even then, only when Sar’ab or another member of the Red and Gold is there to keep watch.

“What do you think of the latest batch of recruits, D?”

Damian shrugs into a soft cotton t-shirt, plain red rather than Rockets. 

“They’re alright. Where’s Khala?”

“Still meeting with your grandfather.”

Sara had been surprised Ra’s hadn’t insisted on Damian staying this time. He’s been slowly increasing Damian’s involvement, encouraging Nyssa and Sara to discuss their missions with him.

Damian accepts her answer and crouches to scoop Rocket into his arms.

“I guess I’ll meditate,” Damian says, heading to a softly-appointed, extra-heavily candled corner set up for Sara’s least favorite League practice. 

“Sure, little man.”

He folds himself into position, Rocket in his lap.

Sara changes into her own, more casual clothes, folding her more ceremonial gear and grabbing Damian’s to do the same. The extra discipline is natural in this setting. Nanda Parbat straightens all of their spines, heightens all of their senses. Still, with Nyssa in council and Damian meditating (probably to avoid his geometry work), Sara can steal herself a nap.  
  
***  
  
“This is unfair,” Sara mock-complains in Japanese. (They’re working on Damian’s, and Sara’s could use a little work, too.) “You stuck me with Sar’ab.” She leaps over Damian’s bo staff.

“Excuse you,” Sar’ab objects, catching the dull blade of Nyssa’s sword on his and pushing.

“You’re not excused until you start pulling your weight.” She nods to him and ducks under his sword blow at Damian as she almost takes out Nyssa’s knees with her own bo. 

They continue to spar, two on two, as they’ve done countless times, a familiar rhythm. Suddenly, Nyssa turns on Damian, knocking him on his back in an instant. Sara feels a familiar pang, brief as a flutter, of worry, but Damian easily recovers, standing at parade rest as Nyssa instructs:

“You never know when the numbers may turn in a battle. Further, even if I were loyal, you should have awareness of your compatriots at all times.”

“Yes, Khala.”

“Very well. A brief respite. You may change your weapon if you wish.”

Damian carefully re-racks his bo in favor of a bow.

“Traitor,” Sara teases in English as she slings an arm over his narrow shoulders and looks down on him fondly.

Damian chugs from the water bottle and then tosses it to Sara, who catches, drinks, and tosses it to Nyssa while Damian’s still wiping his mouth on his shoulder. It’s an old, easy habit.

“Very well,” Nyssa continues in Japanese. “Let’s-“

Sara feels the rumble before she hears it. Then there’s the familiar snap and crash.

Earthquake.

Nanda Parbat is ancient and solid. Sara feels no fear at the tremor, just curiosity.

“Been awhile since I felt one of those,” Sara notes.

“Reminds me of my childhood,” Sar’ab grins.

They resume their sparring, until someone pushes into the training room, calling for the Heir. Umm Saleem is close at the messenger’s heels, which immediately gets everyone’s attention.

“The village,” the messenger reports. “The tremor triggered a landslide. The village will require our aid.”

There are several villages within a few days’ walk of Nanda Parbat, but there’s only one that’s “the village”, a two hour hike into the valley, and the birthplace of many of Nanda Parbat’s non-assassin staff, including Umm Saleem.

The village accordingly enjoys a greater protection than the rest, a symbiosis with the great fortress above them. 

They of course jump into action immediately, racking their training weapons and preparing for the trek down the mountain.  
  
***  
  
“I want to come,” Damian is insisting, following close at their heels.

“No,” Nyssa insists, dressed in full battle gear, as Sara is beside her. Damian is likewise dressed for battle, though if Nyssa gets her way (and she usually does), he won’t be going anywhere.

“Please, Khala.”

“No. Do not question me again.”

“Jeddy!” 

Ra’s has met them in the hallway, dressed for the excursion. 

“May I please come?” Damian asks, as formally as possible, head bowed deferentially. Nyssa cuts her eyes to him, displeased. 

Ra’s nods. “Keep up. Stay close to Khala and Taer al-Asfer. Do not get in the way. Be helpful, or invisible.”

“Yes, Jeddy. Thank you, Jeddy.”

Damian slides next to Sara, keeping her between himself and Nyssa.

“You’re in so much trouble,” she warns him in a low voice. The maternal part of her is annoyed and nervous. But there’s another part of her (the part Laurel calls the “little shit” part) that is a little proud and pretty amused. 

“Shh, Taer al-Asfer. I’m being invisible,” Damian murmurs back, eyes dancing. 

Sara motions with her chin for him to fall back behind them. 

He nods obediently, lowers his eyes again, and takes his place two steps behind. Sar’ab has fallen back, too, to bring up the rear of their quartet and keep an extra eye on Damian.  
  
***  
  
A shelf of the mountain fell, tumbled down, and slid through six houses that held, between them, twenty members of one family, and seven of another. Rogue boulders knocked down fences, let livestock run amok, cracked open a basin holding one home’s entire water supply.

Chickens can be tracked down, though. Water replenished, crops supplemented, fences rebuilt.

Twenty-seven lives, however, are irreplaceable, and likely wiped out forever. The villagers are still picking through the rubble, and there could be survivors. The League medics set up triage and see to the more minor, incidental damage while the rest of the great Ra’s al Ghul’s soldiers spell the exhausted residents who have been picking through the broken remains of six homes for over two hours in the maybe vain hope that there is even a single survivor among them. 

Sara pulls up her veil, not to conceal her identity but to shield her lungs from the dust still thick in the air. She turns back to Damian, her little shadow since they left the fortress, because Nyssa is too angry to look at him. She motions for him to do the same with his veil and he obeys. 

Ra’s does not even need to give orders. The assassins leap into the task of possibly saving lives as readily as they snuff lives out. 

Sara and Damian come upon an older man caked with dust and blood. She takes his shoulder and manages some embarrassingly poor phrases of greeting and assistance in the village’s Pashto dialect. She motions to his bleeding leg, and he tries to wave her off. 

She’s at a loss in the dialect and says, in Arabic instead:

“We’ll take it from here.”

“Um,” Damian speaks up, clearing his throat and pausing. Then he says something in Pashto that the man understands. Of course Damian, who spends a significant portion of his days in Marwa’s kitchens on Paradise Island and was raised at Umm Saleem’s knee, is better at this than Sara is, which Sara has to admit is a pretty embarrassing failing on her part.

Sara removes her hand from the man’s shoulder and turns to Damian, grabbing both of his shoulders.

“Take him to triage,” she orders firmly. “Stay with him until a medic sees to him, and then _come straight back here_.”

“Yes, Taer al-Asfer,” he says obediently. Over his veil, his dark blue eyes are wide with the horror around them, and her heart aches a little, but he’s put on his serious face, his training face. She pulls him into a brief, terribly informal hug. 

“Be safe,” she says more softly.

“Yes, Habibti,” he answers into her middle. He nuzzles her ribs the tiniest bit and then pulls away, shoulders straight and speaking a faltering Pashto to the man, offering his arm to help him to the medics just thirty or forty paces off.

She turns her attention to what’s left of the house in front of her. There’s not much, at all. There’s a reason only the one, injured man was working on this one. The rest have something resembling structure to them, but this one is just a pile of stone and wood. Still, there’s always the slim hope of survivors. 

She takes a few steps towards the rubble and freezes. She just heard…

There it is again. 

You could debate (and Sara has debated) whether she is technically a _mom_ , but there is no arguing that she has _mom instincts_. You don’t raise a kid from a few weeks old without being particularly attuned to-

Yep, that’s a baby’s cry.

From the dead center of the debris.

Sara rushes towards it, stupidly, and within a few yards, the unstable remnants of the house have given away. She slides and falls, painfully, until she abruptly meets the ground, pain radiating from her tailbone. She doesn’t seem to be seriously injured, though, and her inadvertent cave-in has opened up the lower level of the wreckage, bringing in a little more light, once the dust begins to settle. Sara picks herself up, brushing herself off and taking a few tentative steps forward. 

When the air clears a little more, she finds herself face to face, a handful of paces away, with a dirty but, at least from here unharmed, toddler. 

The little girl, probably, shrinks away when they make eye contact. It’s hard to tell, but judging by the most recent pictures she received of little Miss Dinah Estela Ramon-Lance, Sara would put the girl just a little older than her niece, who is two and a half.

 Sara pulls down her hood and veil, trying to look less intimidating. She holds out her hands.

“Hello,” Sara says in the girl’s Pashto. She knows that at least. 

The girl nods to acknowledge the greeting. Dark hair and grey-green eyes, she’s wedged under what’s left of a bookcase, back against half of a wall. Sara sees a pair of legs then, in her periphery vision, and she realizes with a jolt that they’re probably no longer attached to the woman’s torso partially buried by broken beams. She stifles a sob. From the way the body lies, this young woman was reaching towards the toddler. Her mother?  
Sara sets that aside for now, because she _can’t,_ and takes another step towards the toddler. She hadn’t been expecting a toddler, the cry had sounded… 

The wail, an infant’s wail, goes up again. The toddler starts singing softly and shifts enough to reveal a bundle of blankets with tiny feet kicking out the end of it. The little girl is patting the baby and murmuring something that makes the baby quiet again. 

Sara’s heart catches in her throat. She wants nothing more than to rush to them and gather them up. But it might spook the toddler, and the lean-to created by the wall and the bookcase may have spared these two’s lives, but Sara does not trust it to stay in its precarious situation. She must go slowly.

“It’s going to be okay,” Sara says, mixing Arabic in when she is at a loss for the Pashto words. “Just stay right there. I’m going to take care of you.” 

The little one’s stares at her intently, no longer shrinking away. The baby stays quiet.

“Habibti!”

Damian’s voice cracks over the eery silence, as does the sound of his feet running on uneven ground. Above her, the rubble creaks and rumbles.

“Damian, stop!” she yells.

He does.

“Back up.”

He does.

“I’m okay. Go get Khala, now. Tell her we have survivors. Kids. _Babies_.”  
  
***

 

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

“Khala!”

The boy is breathless when he comes over, fear in his eyes. She’s annoyed, still, and then angry with herself for being so annoyed, but one look at him shoves that all aside.

“What is it, Damian?” she asks immediately, gloved hand immediately on his back. He straightens at her touch, as if drawing strength from it.

“Hab-“ His eyes dart to their audience, half a dozen assassins, and he adjusts accordingly. “Taer al-Asfer has fallen into- The ground gave way and- There are survivors. Babies, she says.”

The panic rushes fast into Nyssa’s heart, hot and disorienting, but she latches onto that last word. Says.

“She is uninjured?”

“She said she’s okay,” Damian says quickly. “I couldn’t see her. The ground is unstable; she heard me coming and wouldn’t let me come closer.”

“Alright. Go tell your grandfather. Quickly.” She squeezes his shoulder. “Safely, yes?”

“Yes, Khala. I’m sor-“

“Not now. Get your grandfather and meet me over there.”  
  
***  
  
“I’m Sara,” she says, trying to build on the trust the girl has shown by allowing her to sit, cross-legged, only a couple feet from the two. She hopes the toddler will reciprocate, but she just nods and continues to stroke one of the baby’s exposed feet. “I’m going to get you out of here.” That last promise is in Arabic, beyond her capability in Pashto. 

She slowly reaches out and almost touches the infant’s other foot, but the girl stiffens and Sara retreats and rethinks. She reaches for the yellow scarf at her waist, untying it and brushing it off before handing it to the little one. The girl takes it and runs it through her fingers, studying it. 

“Taer al Asfer? Are you alright?” 

That’s Nyssa’s voice, and Sara feels flooded with relief.

“Be careful,” are Sara’s first words. “The ground is-“

“Unstable, yes. Damian warned me. What is the situation? Are you uninjured?”

“A little bruised up and sore, but from what I can tell, all three of us are mostly okay. Dehydrated.”

“Three?”

“Yep. Can you, um- How would I ask a very sweet, very small little girl to let me take the very tiny baby she is holding?”

“Oh, Sara.”

“We’re just a little nervous, understandably.”

Nyssa starts speaking in Pashto then, better than Damian even, and the girl’s eyes dart up. She looks to be intently listening.

The toddler looks back to Sara once Nyssa has stopped. Sara scoots even closer, sparing a glance for the teetering bookcase above the girls’ heads. She extends her hands and the girl tenses but does not move away. Sara quickly slips her hands around the swaddled baby, head and rump, and takes it from the toddler. She tucks the baby in the crook of one arm and immediately puts a hand on the toddler’s knee. 

“Be careful,” Sara tells her, in Arabic. Her mind is moving too quickly to handle Pashto right now. “We’re going to do this nice and slow, sweetheart.”

The girl freezes as if she understands her. 

“Okay, Nyssa. I have the baby,” Sara calls over her shoulder. “I need her to crawl towards me now, very slowly.”

There’s a pause.

“Nyssa?”

“Yes, sorry. I don’t have much opportunity to use _crawl_ ,” Nyssa says. 

Sara chuckles a little, and Nyssa finally says something to the girl. 

After a moment, the girl tilts forwards and onto her hands and knees, dragging the yellow scarf with her. Sara clambers, one-armed, into a squat and begins to back up with her, towards the more open-air part of the crater. She holds her breath as the girl starts to clear the bookcase. She’s almost made it when Sara feels something shift. On instinct, she grabs the girl’s shoulder and falls back, dragging her with her as all three of them land, Sara cushioning them, a few yards from where the bookcase lean-to once stood. Sara lets out a relieved breath.

“Sara? Sara!”

“We’re okay,” Sara coughs, then louder. “We’re okay!”  
  


  
***  
  


It takes longer than Nyssa would like, as the ground was too unsteady for aerial scarves and needed to be shored up, but she is on the same level as Sara soon enough. Sara leans against a large boulder, a toddler wrapped in her yellow scarf leaning against her right side, an infant-shaped bundle of blankets in her lap. They’re all dirty and a little tattered, Sara’s blonde hair caked with grey dust, but they do look relatively unharmed. Nyssa drops to her knees beside Sara, hands finding Sara’s face and cradling it gently. She grazes a lightning quick kiss to Sara’s temple then presses their foreheads together. Sara takes her right hand off of the little one’s shoulder and brushes fingers across Nyssa’s cheek and through the ends of her hair. 

“Hey.”

“Hello, habibti.”

“You didn’t happen to bring some water, did you?”

Nyssa pulls away and grabs the canteen tied to her belt and the small earthen cup from her cloak’s pockets. Sara fills the cup and offers it to the little girl, who stirs and takes a few sips while half asleep, exhausted from the dehydration and shock. The water brings a little light back to her eyes. 

Then Sara turns her attention to the baby, unswaddling it a little and peeling off her gloves and wetting her fingers, letting the baby mouth the water off of them.

“So small. Four? Five months?” Sara guesses.

“I’d guess the same,” Nyssa affirms. The baby is small, with copious dark curls like the girl and dark brown eyes where the girl’s eyes are lighter.

“Brother or sister?” Nyssa asks softly in Pashto.

The toddler bites her lip and then softly whispers: “Sister.”

Then she goes back to leaning against Sara’s side.

“You’ve been very brave,” Nyssa tells the toddler. She switches to Arabic and says to Sara: “We must get these girls above ground quickly. All of you. Are there any other survivors?”

“I haven’t seen any, but I’ve been a little busy.”

“We’ll do a sweep,” Nyssa nods. She looks over her shoulder, to where Sar’ab stands at the base of the ladder, to where Damian stands at the lip of the crater with her father’s hand on his shoulder. 

“Give me your scarf,” Sara insists, screwing the top of the canteen back on. “You think you remember how to tie her on?”

Nyssa grins a little. “It _has_ been quite some time since we could do that with Damian, but I think I’ll manage. Give Sar’ab-“

“No,” Sara says firmly. “No. You get her. I’ll get the baby. No new people: they’ve been through enough.” She takes a deep breath and looks to the toddler. “Alright, kiddo. This is Nyssa. She’s gonna carry you out of here.”

She says it in Arabic (except for the English “kiddo”) but the girl almost seems like she understands. She looks to Nyssa, a little warily, and clings to Sara’s arm.

“It’s okay,” Nyssa assures her gently in her native tongue. The girl stiffens a little but does not resist when Nyssa scoops her up and stands. Her knees instinctively squeeze Nyssa’s waist, little fingers holding on as best she can in her weakened state. Nyssa uses Sara’s gold scarf to keep her in place for the climb. She is a little rusty, as she said, but she does indeed manage, and then helps Sara with the tighter hold needed for an infant who cannot hold on. Once they’re situated, the little girl rests her head at Nyssa’s collarbone and presses her bare feet against her hip. Nyssa gives Sara a final once over, reaching over to brush some dirt from her cheek.

“You are alright?”

“Yeah,” Sara nods, though her eyes are still a little distant. “Damian okay?”

“Worried about you,” Nyssa says, looking back up at him. Sara follows her eyes and gives their boy a reassuring wave.

“Let’s go.”

It’s an easy enough climb, even with their passengers. The rubble shifts only one time while Nyssa is on the ladder, and the little one in her sling moans in fear. Nyssa pauses and lays a calming hand on her back before continuing. Sara has climbed ahead of her, and when Nyssa reaches the top, Sara already has Damian wrapped around her, her father expressing his gratitude that she is well. 

Then Damian is leading them over to the medic’s tent, and Nyssa holds the little girl’s hand as they insert a rehydrating IV. Before she can do anything else, she is, of course, pulled away. Here in Nanda Parbat, there is always something she must be doing that takes her away from Sara and Damian.

“We’ll be okay,” Sara promises, squeezing her hand once and even managing a genuine smile. “I promise not to stand near any more holes.”

“It would be appreciated.”  
  


***

  
With Sara and the two girls hooked up to IVs, Damian is left to be their messenger and gofer. He darts about, collecting food, information, and even a small rag doll Sar’ab retrieved from the ruins of the house. Sara is incredibly proud of their boy. His greatest achievement is a bottle of yak milk from one of the homes not destroyed, which he keeps warm under his arm as he, somehow, becomes the one to bear the terrible news of the family’s fate.

(Whoever let him, the eight-year-old, prince or no, deliver the news of an entire family’s decimation will surely face Nyssa’s quiet, terrifying wrath.)

The girls’ closest family members were all killed. The villagers recognize several levels of kinship, though, and someone will take them in and feed and clothe them, however begrudgingly, at least until they are old enough to be sent to Nanda Parbat to train, as warrior or servant.

That is the fate of many of the village and virtually all of the orphans. The few village-born assassins currently in Nanda Parbat had been among the first on scene, translating beyond the basic phrases most of the League know.  
But Sara isn’t ready to be parted from these girls yet. Between Sara’s spotty village Pashto, Damian’s better but still incomplete dialect, and the toddler’s surprising vocabulary of Arabic words, they manage enough to know:

The girl’s name is Azra. 

She is almost three.

Her sister is Soraya.

Azra takes a shining to the goofy boy who speaks her language, who brought her bread and her doll, who makes silly faces at her in their corner of the medic’s tent. Eventually, Damian and Azra are snuggled on a cot while Sara rocks Soraya in an uncomfortable collapsable chair and feeds her the bottle. Soraya’s little hand finds a hold at Sara’s collar, and while at first she objects to the unknown bottle, she soon is suckling hungrily. Sara traces a finger over her chubby little cheek and sneaks a peek at the other two.

That’s how Nyssa finds them.

Their eyes meet across the tent, and they have a silent conversation, or at least the beginning of one, the type you can only have when you’ve spent fifteen years at each other’s side.

“Once we have Qrimzi’s approval, we will begin the trip back to Nanda Parbat. All of us,” Nyssa says when she’s close enough, nodding towards the girls. “Until we can make sure they are well, and find a more permanent plan.”

Sara breathes out a sigh.

“This is Azra,” she tells Nyssa, gesturing to the toddler. “And Soraya.”

Nyssa puts on _that_ smile, the one she saves for Sara and small children (and Rocket), and says something to Azra that makes the girl grin in return before turning her face into Damian’s chest. 

Nyssa looks to Sara then, smile turning knowing. 

“Have you put her down at all?”

“No,” Damian answers for her. “Except when she changed her diaper. Which was gross.”

“Hey, I used to do it for _you_ all the time. So did Khala.”

“Gross,” Damian shudders.

“Where did you find a diaper?” Nyssa asks, impressed, as she beckons for Sara to hand her the baby.

“I found it,” Damian beams with pride, before answering whatever Azra has whispered to him. 

Sara finds herself beaming, too, as she stretches out stiff muscles and watches Nyssa cradle Soraya, saying something gently in the baby’s little ear. She’d forgotten how stinking cute Nyssa is with babies.

“Well done,” Nyssa praises Damian, shifting Soraya to her hip. “Get some rest now. We’ll leave soon.”  
  


***

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

Sara wakes with a start. She thought she heard-

Her heart rate slows as she sees Nyssa bent over the bassinet (Damian’s, once) that is pulled to the end of the bed. Beside her, Damian, Azra, and Rocket sleep in a tangle. Sara rubs the sleep from her eyes and slides out from under Damian’s foot.

“She okay?” Sara whispers, leaning over sleepily and pressing a soft kiss to Nyssa’s lips.

“Probably hungry. I’ll warm a bottle,” Nyssa says, lifting Soraya out of the bassinet and passing her over before disappearing into the en suite bathroom. 

The baby whines and throws her fists around, and Sara instinctively rocks her at the easy rhythm that used to soothe D.

She looks down at Soraya’s tiny, angry face and remembers the woman again, running towards her children, never to reach them. Thinks of these girls, destined to be just two more mouths to feed in an already overtaxed family. Nanda Parbat’s assistance keeps the village in better shape than the rest around here, but it is still incredibly hard to survive on the slopes of the Hindu Kush.

Nyssa returns, testing the bottle on the inside of her wrist and softly humming one of the pretty melodies that she still sings when Damian wakes with nightmares. (Sara usually sticks to Disney songs ‘cause she knows them all or hair metal ‘cause that’s what her dad sang to her.) Soraya calms at the tune, and Sara starts:

“Nyssa, I think-“

“I know,” Nyssa assures her. “We’ll discuss it with my father, Umm Saleem, and the village elders tomorrow.”

“How-?” Sara asks, though she is unsurprised. 

“I know you, habibti. Your heart has already claimed them.”

Nyssa settles on the edge of the bed with Sara, giving her the bottle and reaching her arm to rest behind Sara’s hips. Sara leans into it, and Nyssa rests her chin on her shoulder. 

“Is that okay?” Sara asks. “If we… adopt them?”

“I’ve “owed you one” for quite some time. About eight years and two months, to be specific.”

Sara snorts a laugh. The situation is eerily familiar. 

“You shouldn’t say yes on an IOU,” Sara chides as she begins to feed Soraya the bottle.

“Well, one should also never volunteer to raise a child without consulting one’s partner,” Nyssa points out, dropping a kiss to her shoulder as she looks back towards the snoring Damian. “We’ve always been unconventional. Perhaps especially when it comes to parenting.”

“Nyssa…”

“It will not be easy. They, especially Azra, have been through an incredible ordeal. But few are more prepared to handle that than we are. As long as the village has no objection, neither do I,” Nyssa assures her, brushing Sara’s hair behind her ear.

“And it’s what you want?”

“Yes, Sara. And you?”

The light is low, just a few candles, but Sara can still turn and look into Nyssa’s eyes.

“Yeah, it really is.”

While Soraya suckles lazily at the bottle, Sara leans over and presses her lips to Nyssa’s. Before they can say anything else, Azra wakes with a scream. 

Damian and Rocket both startle at it, but Nyssa is at their sides in a moment, soothing the girl in village Pashto. Sara guesses she’s really going to have to brush up on that now.  
  
***  
  
Ra’s al Ghul arrives at their door with the morning’s breakfast service. Rocket is first to greet him, Damian a close second. He is gentle this morning, like he was when Damian was younger, and he of course speaks fluent village Pashto.

“Good morning,” he says to Nyssa and Sara after greeting little Azra in Sara’s lap. “How did we all sleep last night?”

“Bad,” Damian grumbles, yawning. “Babies cry a lot.”

“Ah. Perhaps now you know something of what you once put your aunts through,” Nyssa’s father teases him, eyes dancing.

Damian mumbles a “yes, jeddy” as he turns his attention breakfast, filling a plate with abandon. 

“May I hold our youngest guest of honor?” he ask/commands, extending his jeweled hands for her. 

Nyssa gives Soraya over before asking Azra, still shyly buried in Sara’s lap and surveying the newest stranger with astute eyes, what she would like for breakfast. The little one shrugs, perhaps unable to comprehend the question, so Nyssa begins to assemble a small plate for her while her father says:

“I’ve arranged for the village elders to come to Nanda Parbat this afternoon. To discuss rebuilding plans and what aid we can provide. And the futures of young Azra and Soraya. Umm Saleem is on her way.”

Nyssa suppresses a sigh. He already knows, of course. She should not be surprised. Sara is the Will of the Demon and the Demon knows his Will well. 

“You have my blessing to adopt them, if that is what you desire.”

“Can’t get anything by you,” Sara teases him, in that way truly only she can.

He smirks at her while bouncing Soraya a little. The baby giggles and gums at her hand, eyes bright and alert, despite how much she had been up last night.

“Another little surprise Umm Saleem shared with me: Miss Azra here speaks some Arabic.” Her father looks to the little one in Sara’s lap, winking at her, and then asking her, in Arabic, if she is enjoying her breakfast.

Nyssa should be used to her father’s meddling by now, but it still manages to set her off balance. She sits down in the chair beside Sara. Sara’s hand reaches out and finds her wrist, briefly squeezing, as Ra’s expertly pours them all tea with one hand and tries to gently engage Azra in conversation.   
  
***  
  
Umm Saleem was chosen as Nyssa’s nanny, all those years ago, because she was even tempered and patient. She raised three sons in the village; the oldest of them, Saleem, still serves as the highest ranking civilian in Ra’s al Ghul’s employ and the youngest, Dagar, lost his life in the black robes of a League assassin. She is astute and firm and unflinchingly loyal to Ra’s al Ghul and, perhaps even more so, to his Heir who she raised from infancy. That same patience and even temper has made her ideal to help them raise Damian and to tolerate the very _American_ -ness of Taer al-Asfer.

Nyssa had been anxious for Umm Saleem to meet Soraya and Azra, and she does not disappoint, expressing her approval of the plans to incorporate them into the family and even getting Azra to finally unfold from Sara’s lap and join her and Damian on the floor for a construction project with blocks. 

After breakfast, her father invites Damian and Azra to accompany him on his rounds of Nanda Parbat. Sara and Rocket go with; Rocket could use the exercise, and Sara enjoys her place as Iradat al Ghul probably more than she’s even admitted to herself. 

That leaves Nyssa and Umm Saleem behind, Soraya taking an after breakfast nap. She apparently sleeps just fine during the day. 

They share a pot of tea, and Umm Saleem shares everything she knows from village gossip about the girls.

“Azra speaks very well for her age, in Arabic and Pashto,” Nyssa notes.

“Mm,” Umm Saleem agrees. “Ghazan says Azra’s grandfather was always bragging of her quickness.”

Ghazan is Umm Saleem’s middle son, a man of some importance among the village leadership.

“Why does she speak Arabic?”

“Because her khala taught her mother, and her mother began to teach her,” Umm Saleem says as the mid-morning sun slats through the window, a mountain breeze filling the room, light for this time of year. “ So that she would be well-positioned to serve in the fortress.”

“So why did her aunt speak Arabic?” Nyssa asks.

“Because the girls‘ khala was Salataeun.”

Nyssa looks up sharply from her cup.  Salataeun was an assassin who died in the service of the League a few years previously, on a mission lead by the Heir and her Beloved. Nyssa sits with that, thinks she can even see some of Salataeun in Azra’s features.

“Does that change how you feel?” Umm Saleem asks pointedly.

“Not at all. I had not even realized Salataeun was village-born is all. Rarely do I have to face the families of slain assassins.”

“True. That is something unique to the village-born.” Umm Saleem pauses, perhaps thinking of her own Dagar, and then looks Nyssa over. “I know you can deny your little bird nothing, but are you prepared to raise two more children? Three is very different than one. Than two even.”

“Have you ever known me to retreat in the face of a challenge?” Nyssa asks, arching an eyebrow.

Umm Saleem laughs. “No, I have not, little princess.”  
  
***  
  
The village elders nearly fall over themselves to have two of their own adopted into the family of the great Ra’s al Ghul, in a way that makes Sara a little uncomfortable.

Still, Umm Saleem, who Sara trusts completely, had assured them that this is the best outcome for Soraya and Azra, and that they are usurping no one’s rights to them. She then added a few grumbles about raising _babies_ at _her age_.

“I guess I’ll have to brush up on my lullabies,” Sar’ab quips from beside her.

“May the Demon save us all,” Talibah groans from her left. 

“Luckily we have plenty of cotton for protection from Taer al-Asfer’s canary cry,” says Fahd al-Rasadat, the elder statesman of their group, a sixty-year-old assassin originally from the Amazon. 

“It makes ears bleed less than Sar’ab’s singing,” Sara notes, grinning.

The trio makes up the senior leadership of the Red and Gold after Nyssa and Sara and are as much Damian’s aunts and uncles as Laurel, Sin, and Felicity. They had joined her for a briefing on the reconstruction efforts and now escort her back to the Heir’s quarters. 

“Have you informed the little prince that he will have to share you and the Heir now?” Fahd al-Rasadat asks.

Sara laughs. “I’m not sure it’s sunk in.”

They take their leave as Sara and Nyssa’s door with a few final reminders and instructions, and Sara pushes into her room. She’s greeted with splashing and giggles and makes her way to the bathroom, sneaking a view.

The big tub is filled with a few inches of water, just enough for Azra to happily sit in it, and beside her, Nyssa holds Soraya gently in a smaller basin, running a soft cloth over the baby’s tawny skin. Azra leans over, watching, hair wet and curling, totally peaceful, until Soraya’s kicking feet throw water everywhere. Azra leaps back, affronted, and Nyssa grunts a little. Damian chuckles, standing to the side as Umm Saleem helps dry out his ears, his own t-shirt soaked.

“Don’t like it when you’re getting splashed, do you?” he grins. Then he says something in Pashto, which might just be a repetition of what he just said. 

Azra smiles and giggles, flipping onto her tummy and kicking her feet happily. 

“You know you outnumber them, right?” Sara teases. Rocket perks up from her spot far from the bathtub, coming over to greet her happily.

“And you have several dozen kilograms on Sarookh and yet you usually end up wetter than she is at bath time,” Umm Saleem reminds her before handing Nyssa a dry towel.

Nyssa expertly wraps Soraya in the towel and turns to Sara. The front of her shirt has large spots of water, and there are still droplets dripping from flyaway tendrils at her temples. She’s _adorable_. 

“Diaper duty or slippery toddler?” she asks, extending Soraya because she knows which one she’ll choose.

“Good luck with squirmy wormy,” she grins, kissing Nyssa’s cheek as she takes the baby. “D, you wanna see how it’s done?”

“ _No thank you_.”

Sara laughs, looking to the sweet, yawning face emerging from the towel bundle. “We’ll teach him eventually.”

Nyssa is coaxing Azra from the warm, sudsy water. Azra ends up taking a flying leap that gets everyone wetter. Sara buries her laugh in Soraya’s shoulder and gets little fingers buried in hair for her trouble. Rocket has made a run for it to the (hopefully dry) bedroom, and with one look over her shoulder at the grinning Nyssa and the giggling Azra, Sara follows after the hydrophobic dog.

Behind her, she hears Umm Saleem say to Damian:

“Welcome, little prince, to the chaos of _sisters_.”  
  
***  
tbc


	4. Chapter 4

As she leaves an inspection of the League’s newer recruits, Damian appears at her right, hands crossed in front of him, head bowed. He falls into step behind her as they walk down the hall. He has been incredibly deferential the last few days in her presence, especially when not distracted by the whirlwind of energetic change that is Azra and Soraya’s new place in their family. 

“Damian,” Nyssa greets her young charge.

“Khala,” he answers, eyes on the floor. 

“Is there something you would like to discuss?”

“My desires are your desires, Khala,” he repeats something he’s heard her say to her father on several occasions.

“Aha.” She stops and turns to face him. “Then I would like to discuss your insubordination.”

If possible, Damian’s head sinks lower.

“Yes, Khala.”

“Look at me.”

He complies. It isn’t fear in his eyes. He does not fear her as she feared her father, and she is grateful for that. There is some shame, but mostly it is awe and respect and, until recently, complete obedience, at least in the realm of the League. Obedience is something he must perform flawlessly if he is to survive. It is not something she relishes, forcing this vibrant, funny, oh-so-clever boy to unflinchingly obey her will, but it is necessary. He cannot usurp the chain of command, cannot question what comes from above, or he will put his very precious life in danger. She hopes she can continue to receive complete obedience without using fear, or breaking his will.

“You comported yourself well in the field,” she starts, and there is a light of surprise and pride that briefly dances across his face. “You obeyed orders, you avoided unnecessary danger, and you made yourself useful, not a burden. You performed quite admirably under pressure and kept a calm and level head despite your fear.”

He does not deny fear, because he has been taught that fear of what could hurt you is a useful emotion, a sense to be recognized and respected, so long as it does not overcome you. Acknowledge fear. Do not give into it.

“But you may never again disregard my decision on a matter by appealing to Ra’s al Ghul. It is my permission you must seek. It is my word that is law. We both serve Ra’s al Ghul, but I am your direct superior. Ra’s al Ghul may countermand my order, but never by your intervention. Do you understand?”

He pauses, processing so that his answer may be the truth.

“Yes, Khala. I beg forgiveness, Khala,” he says formally.

“It is given,” she responds in kind. “I did not order that you remain in Nanda Parbat to punish or deny you, Damian. It was a dangerous, chaotic situation, an unstable one. You saw that we almost lost Taer al-Asfer.”

Damian nods, an echo of the scare they both suffered in the village in his visage. He drops his gaze. She puts a hand to his cheek and draw his eyes back up to hers.

“We could not lose you.”

If she were reprimanding him about something else, like failing to clear the table after dinner or not wiping his feet after playing on the beach, this is where, at the conclusion of the lesson, she would embrace or kiss him, reminding him that despite his missteps, he is well loved. This is not one of those lessons. This gentle touch to his face will have to do.

“But you must take more responsibility, and your grandfather knew well that you were ready. He is, as ever, the wisest of us. You must still, however, follow my orders without question.”

“I understand, Khala,” he promises, his face brighter as he nods. She removes her hand.

“Very well. I believe we are late to dinner with Taer al-Asfer and your sisters.”

“That’s never good.”  
  
***  
  
Sara waits nervously for the line to connect, double checking the time in Starling City. Laurel is going to be so mad. Laurel, who always complains about Sara’s major life surprises via phone call or text message, years/months/weeks(/days in this case) after the fact. Laurel, who was talking to her sister about when the appropriate time was to even start to _try_ to get pregnant with Stella. Laurel who basically live texted her pregnancy, much to Sara’s alternating interest and disgust. 

Yeah, she’s gonna be _pissed_ (and happy and excited, of course).

Laurel’s smiling face pops into view. 

“Sara! I was just about to call you!”

“Hey you.”

“I have a surprise for you for once!” Laurel says brightly. 

_So. Pissed._

“Okay, sis, shoot.”

Laurel has a shit-eating grin in place, and Sara is too busy feeling terribly guilty to be in any way prepared for what comes out of her sister’s mouth next.

“I’m pregnant.”

Sara’s jaw drops.

“It’s twins.”

_So! Pissed!_

“Sorry I kept it from you for a minute there, but I wanted to actually - Why are you making that face? This is not the face I was expecting.”

“I… also have a surprise.”

“Sara!”

“But congratulations! I’m so happy for you! Twins?! Is Mom freaking out? I’m totally surprised!”

“Spill your secret surprise, Sara,” Laurel sighs, and she’s got that exasperated, loving big sister face on.

“No, I’m really excited for - “

“Sara!”

“So, um. Nyssa and I adopted two little girls?”

“Oh my god!”

“So the good news is that we’ll each have three, and the little ones will all be the same age, about, and-“

“Oh, my, god, Sara! You’re the worst,” Laurel is grinning.

“Hey! I’m _impulsive_ ; that’s why you didn’t know. You purposefully kept this from me!”

Laurel is laughing.

“Okay then, Miss Impulsive, catch me up. Where _are_ my little nieces? _Who_ are they?”

“I’ll grab them in a little bit, or at least the little one. Soraya. She’s about four months old, and Azra just turned three. They’re sisters from a nearby village who lost their family in a landslide. We rescued them, actually, and I…”

“Have a too big heart you hide behind sarcasm and an uncontrollable need to take in strays?” Laurel smiles warmly. 

“It’s a family trait,” Sara quips. “Anyway, Soraya, she’s just a baby, so her sleep schedule’s a mess, and she’s still adjusting to formula, but otherwise she’s settling in fine. Azra’s having a harder time, crying for her mom and dad, trying to cope with what happened. But we’ll figure it out.”

“Of course you will,” Laurel reassures her.

“They were the only survivors. Twenty-seven people died. A whole family and a half, wiped out…” Sara trails off, then shakes away the pain. “Anyway- Twins!”

“Twins!” Laurel laughs. “I swear, Cisco almost passed out in the doctors’ office. Me too!”

“Is Stella excited to be a big sister?”

“She has like zero concept of what’s going on. What about Damian? How’s he handling everything?”

“He’s pretty bonded to Azra already - it’s very sweet. But I don’t think it’s really sunk in yet.”

“And the true queen of that castle?”

“Oh, Rocket is so mad.”

Laurel laughs.

“So basically we just tripled the amount of Lance kids in the world,” Laurel says. “Dad is gonna have a heart attack. He’s still recovering from twins.”

“Maybe I’ll call his doctor before I deliver the news,” Sara teases.

“Not a bad idea,” Laurel chuckles.

“Congrats again, Laurel. Were you trying for Number Two?”

“Two? Yes. Two and Three? No.”

Sara grins. “Sorry I couldn’t let you have your big surprise moment.”

“Hey, I got two nieces out of the deal. Now go get them! I’ll take a pee break cause these guys have started early on the bladder kicking.”

  
***  
  
Damian knocks twice and then pushes into their quarters, dressed for bed. It’s been a long week. Damian just finally moved back into his own room two nights previously. They’re trying to transition Azra into her own bed too, so she has at least started the last three nights on a small cot in the corner, just as Damian did until he was five when they were here in Nanda Parbat. She’s fast asleep there now, Soraya snoring in the bassinet at the foot of the big bed, Rocket relishing the fact that she is once again the only small thing sharing the (her) giant four-poster with Nyssa and Sara.

“Hey D,” Sara beckons him over and scoots closer to Nyssa to make room for him on her side. Nyssa puts her book down to give him her attention. Damian clambers into the bed and sits up against the pillows, pulling his knees to his chest.

“It is late, little one. Have you just finished your evening with your grandfather?”

“Yeah. We were discussing the Qing dynasty and I had a lot of questions.”

“Oh really now,” Sara chuckles. “Like what?”

“How such powerful horse warriors could become such spoiled emperors.”

That goes over Sara’s head, ‘cause unless it was strategy, battles, or combat, Sara struggled to pay attention in her League lessons. Nyssa nods thoughtfully, though.

“A rousing conversation, I’m sure,” she praises.

“The girls are asleep,” Damian notes, chin on his knobby knees. “At the same time.”

Sara laughs as Nyssa grins: “A miracle, for sure.”

“What are they gonna call you?” he suddenly asks. 

“What do you mean?” Nyssa asks as Sara instinctively puts an arm around his bony shoulders, pulling him tight.

“Well, I call you Khala and Habibti, cause, well, you’re my khala and my… habibti.”

“And ‘cause your Khala is terrible at teaching babies names.”

“Or because you, habibti, never picked a different name you wanted,” Nyssa counters. 

“Okay, okay,” Damian cuts through their bicker-flirting with a roll of his eyes. “But aren’t you their _moms_ now? Like their mom-moms. I mean, I know they had other parents first but they died so… Like they’re your _real_ kids?”

“Ah.”

“Oh, D.”

“I mean, you’re my moms, too!” he says quickly, thinking he’s offended them. “But Mother is my mom-mom, and I don’t know! They gotta call you something!”

Sara’s heart melts at his cute confusion and sweet claiming of them. She scruffs his hair, and he groans. 

“I know our family structure is very confusing, but we love you very much, and we always will.

“You’ll always be our first baby,” Sara chimes in. “Well, after Rocket.”

“ _I know,_ ” Damian says, exasperated, flinging himself back, breaking Sara’s hold on him. “But Khala and Habibti are _my_ names for you.”

Sara laughs, so loud she’s scared she’ll wake the girls. She’d spent this whole conversation, this whole week, really, worried that Damian would feel left out by this new situation, that he’d feel disconnected or replaced. 

But no- he’s just staking his claim.

“And they should call you moms, ‘cause you’re gonna be their _moms_ , but there are two of you and _that’s confusing,_ ” he pushes on, very upset that they don’t have an answer to the simple question he asked them.

Nyssa looks bewildered, and Sara’s side aches from holding in her laughter.

“Well, I called Gramma ‘Mommy,’ so that would be okay with me, I guess,” Sara volunteers, leaning over to smack a kiss on his cheek.

“I called my mother Mama. I’d have no objection to the girls doing the same.”

“Okay, _thank you_ ,” Damian says, rubbing at his cheek. “Jeez.”

 _Jeez_ \- a Sara-ism.

“Wow, Khala. Eight-year-olds have a lot of attitude.”

“Sounds to me as if he has some excess energy that will need to be drained off in training tomorrow.”

Damian groans again.

“D, what Khala said is true, though,” Sara says seriously. “We’re always going to be a family. All five of us.”

Rocket pops her bat-eared head out from under the covers.

“Well, six,” she corrects.

“And being an older sibling is a significant responsibility,” Nyssa adds.

“Yeah, that’s what Aunt Laurel said.”

“And Aunt Laurel would know,” Sara laughs.

“Because Aunt Laurel has the most troublesome younger siblings there are.”

“Rude.”

Damian smiles and unfolds, leaning over to kiss each of them in turn.

“Okay. Goodnight, Mommy. Goodnight, Mama.”

“Huh,” Sara says when he’s out the door, as she curls under Nyssa’s arm and waits for the sound of Rocket’s snoring to join Soraya’s. “That’s gonna take some getting used to.”  
  
***  
tbc in the epilogue 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that only took three months! :-/ Sorry for the delay. It's been a busy few months. This isn't the last of Exile!verse, but I'm going to try my best to finish Mine before starting another one!

  
Sara lays on her back in the soft, soft grass and listens to the city go about its day below her. It’s relatively faint from way up here, but it’s there, the heartbeat of Starling City thumping out in the form of trash trucks and car horns, emergency sirens and delivery van door slams. Sara likes it: sometimes Nanda Parbat and Paradise Island (as names that Felicity gives tend to, that one stuck) are way too quiet for her liking. Though she is the only one of the three on the Bird’s Nest’s twenty-story high lawn _not_ sleeping, she still finds this nap profoundly peaceful.

On her chest, one-year-old Soraya sleeps, the occasional baby snore escaping, one hand gripping tightly to Sara’s tank top. At Soraya’s feet, across Sara’s hips, Rocket also soaks up the sun, happily dozing. Sara couldn’t move even if she wanted to.

They have the Bird’s Nest to themselves, which is kind of a weird sensation. After they got married, Laurel and Cisco moved to something less… What was the word Laurel had used? Pretentious? Flamboyant? Ostentatious! That was it. They have a nice brownstone uptown, close enough to be an easy commute for Laurel, far enough from downtown that they have some green space in the back. After _they_ got married, Thea and Sin also moved out, this time for something arguably _more_ ostentatious, the penthouse of Starling City’s newest skyscraper. So the Bird’s Nest is mostly just the occasional crash pad these days, especially with the Black Canary once again on maternity leave. 

Hard to believe it’s been over ten years since they last spent the summer in Starling, even though they’ve got a nine-year-old who is basically living proof of that fact. 

It’s early June, one week into their family’s three month residency in Starling, and the perfect kind of late spring, almost summer weather: warm sun, cool breeze, low humidity. Soft grass, blooming flowers, perfect nap.

“Habibti!!! We’re back!!!!”

Rocket wakes first, painfully pushing off of Sara’s bladder and bounding for Damian and Azra at the sliding glass door. 

Sara barely has time to let out an “Oof!” before Soraya is up, too, screaming.

So much for peace.

The first thing Sara learned in going from one kid to three? Three times as many kids, infinite times as much chaos and noise. 

Sara bounces Soraya to try to soothe her and soon has a little Azra wrapped around her knee, smiling up at her. 

“Soraya’s sad. Why’s Soraya sad?” Azra asks in absolutely perfect Arabic. (She picked it up fluently within a month of being with them. The kid is _crazy_ smart.) 

“Because you woke her up!” Sara grins, responding in English, because that’s what they’re working on now with both girls. Azra’s comprehension is pretty spot on, but Sara repeats herself in Pashto just in case (and to practice her own village dialect, which is nowhere near as good as Azra’s Arabic). 

Azra giggles a little, and Sara loves the sound from her often serious little girl.

“How was the park?”

“Good,” Damian says as he comes over with a happily wiggly Rocket in his arms. “Khala and Aunt Laurel signed me up for Little League.”

“Wait, what?”  
  
***  
  
It is, strangely enough, the far off tinkling of Sarookh’s tag and collar that wakes Nyssa. Once she’s awake, she does hear the light chatter in the general vicinity of the kitchen below, but it was Sarookh’s goofy, full body shake that finally penetrated her sleep. 

She stretches the drowsiness out of her limbs and pulls one of Sara’s discarded henleys over her tank top. It’s a little short in the torso, but the sleeves are what’s important: Sara’s turned on the air conditioning again. Not that the Heir to the Demon cannot stomach a little chill - there’s just no harm in being cozy.

On the stairs, Nyssa steps through the pair of baby gates that do a reasonably good job of corralling Soraya to whichever floor she’s on and is greeted by the ever-watchful, ever-searching-for-pets, Sarookh. She scoops her up and joins her family at the kitchen bar.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” Sara teases, quickly dropping a plate of two blueberry pancakes in front of Nyssa. 

Damian looks at his bare wrist, feigning a watch, and says: “Oversleeping. Twenty extra pushups.”

Sara laughs. 

Next to Damian, Azra, forgoing the fork beside her plate, nibbles on the pancake she holds in her hand, green-grey eyes beaming at Nyssa as she leans over to kiss the little girl good morning. At the end of the bar, in a high chair, Soraya is covered, head to toe, in syrup. Her dark hair stands completely straight up in the back. Nyssa isn’t even going to ask. 

“Watch out,” Sara motions to Sarookh with the spatula. “She’s already stolen some pancakes today.”

“Three,” Damian supplies. “Two from Azra’s plate when Az went to the bathroom. Then Soraya gave her one.”

“Gave her one?”

“And laughed about it,” Sara confirms. 

Soraya is Sarookh’s new favorite family member. She’s always happy to share her meals and her naps, Sarookh’s two favorite things. Prudently, Nyssa returns Sarookh to the ground where she will have to beg for pancakes, rather than steal them.

“Khala,” Damian asks, briefly brushing up against her in affectionate greeting, “Can I get you some tea?”

“Thank you,” she agrees, taking up fork and knife. She looks to the end of the bar again, where Soraya is smashing blueberries into her mouth, hands stained purple. “Good morning, Soraya.”

Soraya giggles mischievously and offers a handful of berries. 

“No, thank you. I’m very happy with my own breakfast.” 

Soraya holds them out for a few more seconds and then squishes them onto the tray of the high chair before exploding with a line of chatter that is indecipherable in any of the languages she’s being taught. Nyssa remembers that with Damian, though. Multilingual children take a while to figure it all out. Azra’s quick comprehension of everything they throw at her is incredibly rare and impressive.

“I think she’s offended,” Sara says. “I know _I’m_ offended.”

“Why are you offended, habibti?” Nyssa asks idly, taking a bite of her breakfast.

“You said good morning to everyone but me,” Sara notes with a hint of a playful pout. 

“You stole all the blankets last night, and then you turned the air conditioning up. Why should I say good morning?”

Damian laughs at that. Soraya mimics him with a big belly laugh, pausing from drawing blueberry masterpieces. 

“Are you cold, Mama?” Azra asks, handing over her cloth napkin. 

“Your mother is a blanket thief, but no, Azra, I will be fine, thank you.”

Sara crosses her arms over her chest and taps her toe. 

“Khala, you should just say good morning, or she’s gonna be terrible all day,” Damian says wisely, placing a tea cup in front of her. “And we’re going to the pool with Aunt Laurel today, and she might throw you in.”

“She may _attempt_ to throw me in,” Nyssa notes. 

“I’m gonna do it whether you say good morning or not,” Sara promises.

Damian laughs; Soraya repeats him again, adding a squeal at the end. 

“Don’t be rude, Mama,” Azra notes. Done with her pancake, she crawls over to Damian’s empty high-backed stool beside Nyssa, pressing her hip against her. 

“Very well. Good morning, habibti.”

“Thank you!” Sara grins, blowing her a kiss as she makes her own pancake plate up and switches off the stove. “You can make it up to me by doing all the dishes.”

“Of course,” Nyssa agrees, although that was her intention all along.

Sara occupies Azra’s recently vacated seat, and Damian takes one look at the now fully occupied stools and hoists himself onto the counter.

Nyssa raises her eyebrow and Damian says: “What? Where else am I gonna sit?”

She allows it. They are on vacation, after all, and he still maintains proper discipline when the occasion calls for it. 

It is so rare to have a moment with just the five of them. Even here in Starling, with Umm Saleem getting a break back on the island and the Red and Gold spread out across different apartments in the building, Sara’s family (their family) is almost always around.  

When she had asked her father for a small trip to Starling City for Sara’s family to meet the girls, she had expected refusal or, at best, a long weekend. He had granted them a summer. 

She is not so insolent to say that granddaughters have _softened_ the great Ra’s al Ghul. She shall simply be grateful.  
  
***  
  
Being pregnant in the summer is the worst idea she’s ever had. 

Not that she planned that part, but _god_ , it’s the worst. And with twins, no less!

Laurel is suddenly incredibly jealous of her little sister and her ability to stumble (quite literally most recently) into parenthood without that whole “carrying a child for nine months” thing. 

The only saving grace (and it’s a big one) to this summer, with its overwhelming heat, swollen ankles, and total inability to keep up with her three-year-old daughter, is that it comes with a three month residency of said little sister, Laurel’s favorite nephew, and her brand new nieces. (And Nyssa and Rocket, of course, who are only slightly less exciting.) 

It’s certainly reminiscent of another summer, years ago, and Laurel is incredibly grateful for it. Grateful for this, for Damian’s summer of Little League, for Stella and quiet Azra’s sweet bond, and for the body shaking belly laugh of one-year-old Soraya. 

Without even taking the sweating bottle of water from the back of her neck, Laurel slides another bottle across the bleacher seat to Felicity. 

“You should stay hydrated,” she says, eyes tracking Cisco playing tag with Stella and Azra and earning a series of giggles from their three-and-a-half year old niece, who is still coming out of her shell. Nyssa stands close by, one eye on the baseball field, the other also tracking the tag game.

“Thanks?” Felicity says, looking very pointedly away. “It’s not that hot-“

“The first three months are the most precarious,” Laurel cuts her off, pulling her gaze from her goofball husband and the laughing toddlers and leveling it at Felicity. 

“How did you know?” Felicity flushes. 

“Because you switched to decaf, even though you are pretending you didn’t, and Oliver constantly looks like he is going to puke. Or he is grinning like an idiot. I know the signs.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“I would assume Nyssa and Sara, because they, y’know, observe, but I haven’t talked to anyone about it.” 

“So is this a pregnancy super power?” Felicity asks. 

Laurel laughs. “Your secret is safe with me.” 

“Thanks, I-“

“Uh, your family is a little intense,” Dig interrupts, dropping onto the bleacher bench beside them. 

“I know,” Laurel sighs, flashing one last supportive smile at Felicity. “I’ve tried to talk to them about it, but it’s hopeless.” 

Up against the fence behind the dug out, Sara and Quentin shout… Let’s call it encouragement… at the field. Quentin has Soraya strapped to his chest, and the baby happily claps her hands and shouts incomprehensibly along with them. 

“Where are Baby Sara and Lyla?” Felicity asks. 

“Softball game across town,” Dig says. “Gotta play man to man.”

“You’re mixing your sports,” Laurel grins.

Dig acknowledges that with a shrug. 

“Did I miss anything?” Oliver joins them, sliding in next to Felicity. 

“I don’t even know what inning it is,” Laurel admits.

“Third,” Dig supplies. “Tie game, 1-1.”

“Oh, look! Damian’s up to bat,” Felicity says. The increased volume of the cheers from Sara and Quentin confirm that, and Stella and Azra pause their game long enough to join Cisco and Nyssa (in-laws/surprising BFFs) at the first base fence, where they are lifted for a better view. 

Damian hits the third pitch into the near outfield and makes it to second. 

Laurel cheers dutifully, and Damian waves towards the stands. He's such a little stinker, and she adores him. 

Before the boredom of waiting for D’s next at bat sets in, Nyssa, Cisco, and the girls arrive with popcorn. Stella dutifully brings the bag to her.

“Thank you, baby girl!”

“‘Welcome, Mommy,” Stella grins. The three-year-old moves to sit on Laurel’s lap before remembering with disappointment that she no longer fits. She settles for scooting up next to her and stealing kernels. 

“So, uh, if we lose, what are we going to do with Sara and Quentin?” Cisco asks. 

“I know a very effective sleeper hold,” Nyssa provides. “I will ask that you catch Captain Lance, lest he fall on Soraya.”

“On it!” Cisco gives a thumbs up.  
  
***  
  
On the corner, Sin checks their watch again. Thea ran ahead to grab a table, but the entire al Ghul family (as Sin refers to them only in their head) has yet to arrive. 

Finally, Sin recognizes one adorable little head above the rest. Azra, happily perched on Nyssa’s shoulders and enjoying the view. Sin follows Azra’s line of sight down but doesn’t find the rest of them. There, a few clumps of pedestrians behind, is Sara and the remaining two assassin babies. (Laurel looks hella uncomfortable when Sin calls them that, but it always get a good laugh from Thea, so Sin kept saying it, and now it’s stuck.) 

Sara pushes a stroller, a visual Sin would have paid good money for many years ago, and is deep in conversation with Damian. She takes one hand off the stroller to sling it across Damian’s shoulders and then ruffle his hair. Damian looks simultaneously annoyed and delighted, and it’s a feeling Sin remembers quite well. In the front of the stroller, Soraya shakes something, probably (but not definitely) a toy. Considering the kid that can scale baby gates at just a couple months past one, Sin is not surprised by anything Soraya does. 

Sin is looking forward to grabbing a little alone time with Sara this afternoon. Thankfully, Thea and Nyssa are very close, so they’ll entertain each other. Not that Sin doesn’t love Nyssa; it’s just that between living thousands of miles away and three small children, Sin doesn’t get Sara to themself very often.

Sin’s not sure how they all got so old, married off (Sin) with a growing family (Sara).

“Aunt Sin!” 

Sin’s whole week is made by the bright cry of little Azra al Ghul, and Sin can tell it is going to be an awesome day.  
  
***  
  
On a lounge chair on the way too big to call it a balcony, Sara sips from her beer and bounces little Soraya on her knee. 

Inside, Nyssa and Felicity are talking economics and helping Azra and Damian with a puzzle. Sar’ab looms nearby, half in the conversation. That’s still hard for Oliver to process, that distant part of his past so intimate a part of Sara’s present.

“So… when is Felicity due?”

Oliver chokes on his own swig, and Sara’s got a shit-eating grin on her face. 

“She told you?”

He swears he didn’t squeak.

Sar’ab laughs.

“Oliver, no one had to tell me. Here, take Soraya. You need the practice.”

She unceremoniously drops the one-year-old onto his lap. Soraya laughs, and Oliver’s reflexes kick in, catching her ably. 

“So, when’s she due?” Sara repeats.

“January.”

“Much better timing than Laurel,” Sara notes.

Oliver eyes Soraya warily. 

“She doesn’t bite,” Sara says. “Usually.”

Soraya grabs his fingers and hauls herself into a standing position, balancing on his knees.

“Are you excited?”

“Yes,” Oliver answers automatically.

“Are you scared?”

“Yes.”

“You should be,” Sar’ab says, and Sara laughs. They’re a regular comedy duo at his expense.

“You’ll be fine,” Sara counters. “If I can do this, you can do this.”

The thing is, Sara is crazy good at this. Unexpectedly, totally _natural_ at being a parent. So she says stuff like this, but Oliver can’t bring himself to believe her.

He is excited, though.

“Just try not to overthink it, Ollie.”

Oliver nods and looks at dark-eyed, wild-haired Soraya again. There’s an odd look on the infant’s face.

Sara’s phone rings, and she fishes it out of her pocket.

Just as Sara says hello, Soraya pukes all over Oliver.

He thinks she even gets a little in his mouth.

Then she begins to wail.

Oliver holds the baby at arms’ length, not wanting to get her clothes dirty (since she missed herself entirely) and, red-faced, Soraya sobs louder. 

Sar’ab swoops in to take her, soothes her with a practiced touch, and gives Oliver a sympathetic smile.

Sara hangs up the phone and smothers a laugh.

“Sorry, Ollie. That was Cisco - Laurel’s in labor, and I’m gonna go pick up Stella.” She holds her arms out, and Sar’ab easily hands the baby off. “Sorry to cut tonight short. Sar’ab, will you help him?”

Sara is bee-lining for the balcony door, Soraya giving Oliver a death glare over her mom’s shoulder.

“I don’t think that kid likes me.”

Sar’ab grins. 

“Al-Amirah is hard to please. Your own child will be more fond of you,” Sar’ab assures him. “Kids like you.”

Oliver softens, remembering Akio. 

“Not Sara’s kids.”

Sar’ab chuckles. “You must remember they are also the Heir’s children.”

“Yeah, and Nyssa’s never been a big fan.”

“No,” Sar’ab confirms. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”  
  
***  
  
“Oh my god, you named them after birds!” Felicity realizes, and Sara cackles. She has one Baby Bird in her arms, the older of the twins, Viviana Paloma. Felicity holds Amelia Wren. Her own brood of chicks is at home, sleeping, under their mama’s watchful eye.

“I told Cisco he could pick the middle names,” Laurel sighs.

She looks totally exhausted, but little sisters always have to tease. In true little sibling fashion, Sin steals the opportunity from her.

“You let Cisco of the punny metahuman names have free rein to pick names?” they ask, incredulous.

“Hey, I don’t want guff from The One Who Doesn’t Want Kids, The One Whose Kid is Still Incubating, and especially The One Who Didn’t Have to Name a Single One of Her Kids,” Laurel complains. Sin elbows Sara in the ribs and demands their turn with Viviana. Sara hands the dark-eyed newborn over.

“Their names are pretty,” Sara assures her sister, joining Laurel in the hospital bed. “They’re perfect, sis. Stella’s going to love them. I mean, hate them. But also love them.”

This is actually the first time Sara has been around a true newborn. She is the youngest of the Lance cousins. She was “dead” when Baby Sara was born, away for the births of Michael and Stella. Damian was three weeks old before she held him, a month until he was hers. And, of course, Azra and Soraya…

“Hey,” Laurel says softly, Sin and Felicity distracted by a twin footsie battle by the bassinets. “You okay? I’m sorry if I was out of line.”

“With what?”

“That crack about not naming Damian or the girls.”

Sara shrugs.

“You’re fine. Never bothered me, honestly. I mean, wow, really missed out on the bird theme, but otherwise.” She shrugs again. 

“You don’t wish you had this?”

“Twelve hours of labor? Hell no.”

Laurel laughs. Sara grins.

“Maybe I’m glad I missed this part - it takes weeks before they look more human than alien.”

Laurel bumps their shoulders together, then winces at the effort.

“You’re a rock star, Laurel. I’m really glad I could be here for this.”

“Me too.”

Laurel kisses her cheek. 

“Wanna take bets on whether my husband fell asleep in the cafeteria?”

“He almost definitely did,” Sara says. “Want me to go get him?”

“Let him nap for a minute,” Laurel says. “He earned it.”

Sara looks at the clock. 6:25AM. 

“I bet Azra and Stella are waking each other up right now.”

Laurel smiles.

“Same bed?”

“100% same bed,” Sara nods. “Oh, I forgot.” She pulls out her phone. “Nyssa sent me this.”

In the picture, Damian, Stella, Azra, and Rocket are all piled on D’s twin bed, totally zonked. _For once, the whole bed to myself_ , had accompanied it, though Sara thought that was tempting fate and a midnight Soraya screamfest.

“They’re so cute,” Laurel coos.

“Take it from someone who jumped from one to three in an instant - it’s always a miracle when they’re all asleep.”

Laurel grins and kisses Sara’s temple.

“I don’t want you to go,” she whispers.

Sara takes and squeezes her hand, then deflects: “Ah, you’ll be sick of us once it’s time.”

Proving her earlier point, Amelia begins to scream. At least she thinks it’s Amelia. The twins are identical, and Aunt Sara is still learning to tell them apart.

She hopes Laurel can.

Either way, Sara is saved by the scream. Sara loves being here, sure, but she’s kinda homesick for their real lives. When their vacation ends in three weeks, Sara will be happy to take her family home. 

Sara helps facilitate the transfer of Amelia from Felicity to Laurel and cracks:

“Jeez, Laurel. I think she’s got your pipes.”  
  
***  
  
In the elevator, Sara and Rocket both shake off the effects of the sudden late August downpour. Rocket looks up at her balefully.

“I know; I hate getting wet, too!” Sara replies. She squeezes the rain from the ends of her hair as the doors open on their floor. She removes Rocket’s harness and lets her into the apartment.

Rocket runs for the couch like a heat-seeking missile, rolling around in the pillows madly.

“Weirdo.”

The Birds Nest is quiet. Damian is out with her dad, and the girls should be napping. But Sara easily finds Nyssa by the wall of windows, watching the thumping rain, Azra’s head on her shoulder.

A nightmare, Sara guesses from the tear tracks on the sleeping toddler’s face and the extra tenderness with which Nyssa holds her. Sara may have been the one to find Azra in the rubble, but the strongest bond is between these two, the ever patient Heir to the Demon and her little shadow. Al Thill, the shadow, Ra’s calls her. Al Amirah, the princess, he calls opinionated Soraya.

Nyssa knows Sara is here, of course, but she keeps her attention on the rain, humming softly and rubbing Azra’s back. The world literally fell down around their little girl, her first parents lost forever, and she is still learning to trust the ground beneath her feet. She feels safest in the arms of the one who carried her up out of the wreckage.

“I’m glad we are leaving the day after tomorrow,” Nyssa finally says.

“Why’s that?” 

Sara has shed her drenched outer shirt, chilly in her damp tank top, and she cuddles up alongside the pair, stealing their warmth.

“Because it will take weeks for that couch to stop smelling of wet dog.”

Sara grins and presses her cold nose against Nyssa’s warm neck, kissing her pulse point.

“Yeah, I miss all our own wet dog furniture at home.”

Nyssa huffs a laugh and takes her hand off Azra’s back to snake around Sara’s shoulders.

“I see you two were caught unawares.”

Sara nods against Nyssa’s collar bone.

“And you did not bring the umbrella I recommended.”

Sara grumbles incomprehensibly. Nyssa kisses the top of her head.

“Let’s draw you a warm bath. If the girls remain sleeping, perhaps I’ll join you.”

Sara sighs contentedly.

“That sounds perfect.”  
  
***

  
Fin


End file.
